


Saving Sherlock Holmes

by duchess325



Series: The Baker Street Chronicles [1]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, bbc - Fandom
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Molly Hooper Awkwardly Flirting, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft's Meddling, Pre-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock drugs, Sherlock rehab, Spoilers Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 03:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10067834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchess325/pseuds/duchess325
Summary: After a stint in rehab, Sherlock must find a flat mate to appease his older brother--and not be cut-off from his trust fund.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place before Sherlock gets the case "A Study in Pink." He has been in rehab and one of the conditions of his release (stipulated by Mycroft) is that he find a flat mate. Mycroft has someone in mind, but Sherlock must not know that he had a hand in it. I think this ties in nicely with Mycroft's encounter with John in ASIP. All words in bold are the words of Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss and are included to move the plot along with the BBC Sherlock canon.

     Mycroft Holmes picked up the file from the top of his desk. Inside were the doctor’s notes from the drug rehab facility where his younger brother was currently a patient. Sherlock was to be released in eleven days upon successfully completing his six-week program.

  
     Mycroft sighed as he tossed the file back onto his desk. This wasn’t the first time he had admitted his brother into rehab, and he was fearful that it would not be the last. Sherlock had a brilliant mind, he had to concede, but it was also a very troubled mind. Mycroft, from an early age had been his little brother’s self-appointed protector, and later his court-appointed protector. He realized early on that the protection that Sherlock most needed was from himself.

  
     In the beginning, it had been alcohol and marijuana, the things most easy to find in the elite boarding school that Sherlock attended. However, by the time he was in university, Sherlock had moved on to cocaine and eventually opioids, drugs he considered more “mind-opening.” It was Mycroft’s opinion that his brother partook of them not because they were “mind-opening” but because they provided an escape for the hurt that Sherlock was constantly trying to avoid. There were many demons chasing Sherlock; drugs kept them at bay.

  
     Now, once again, Mycroft found himself in the position of trying to do his best to chase his brother’s demons away and save him from himself. If he had his way, Sherlock would move in with him so he could keep a close eye on his little brother. He knew, however, that Sherlock, would never agree to live with him.

    Sherlock insisted on being on his own and pursuing his ridiculous ambitions of being the world’s first and only “consulting detective.” Such a waste of a mind and talent, Mycroft thought. His brother had been a highly-trained agent for the British government and a successful one at that. Those were good years for Sherlock, in terms of his drug use. The work kept him busy and stimulated, eliminating the need for drugs to do the same jobs. Since he left MI-6, things had not been as well. Sure, the work of a detective was something that Sherlock found thrilling, but it did not always keep him occupied.

  
     What was Mycroft to do? Sherlock insisted on returning to his work. He insisted on being on his own, despite the fact that he had been thrown out of his last flat following his latest relapse. Being a consulting detective apparently meant that Sherlock didn’t make any money; however, he did receive a handsome monthly allowance from his trust fund, which should have been more than sufficient to pay rent, bills, buy food, and leave enough for a generous spending stipend. Yet, despite this substantial allowance, Sherlock had managed to get behind on his rent for three months and had his electricity shut off the last month he had been in his old flat. It was mind-boggling the amount of money he could spend on drugs.

  
     Faced with the probability that this pattern would continue to repeat itself if Mycroft didn’t take more drastic steps to disrupt it, he had decided on several things. First, Sherlock’s allowance would be decreased significantly. Second, he arranged for Sherlock to rent a flat from one of Sherlock’s old clients, a motherly woman named Mrs. Hudson, of whom his brother was very fond. It was Mycroft’s hope that Mrs. Hudson could help look after his brother, while still affording Sherlock a sense of independence. His rent would be paid directly from his trust fund to assure the money could not be used for any other purpose. Finally, Mycroft insisted that Sherlock must find a flat mate.

  
     Sherlock had reluctantly agreed to Mycroft’s terms and only when Mycroft had threatened to have his stint at the rehab facility extended. Sherlock knew that Mycroft, as his Lasting Power of Attorney, not to mention one of the most powerful people in the British government, could make good on this threat and then some.

  
     Mycroft began sifting through another stack of files on his desk. He had decided that if Sherlock was to find a flat mate, he would do all he could to assure that Sherlock would choose someone that he himself would find acceptable. He just had to make sure Sherlock didn’t know.

  
     Finally, Mycroft found a file that looked promising: a recently discharged army doctor, formerly of Bart’s; medical discharge for a gunshot wound; possible PTSD; living in a cheap bedsit in London; no close family—only an estranged sister living in Sussex. Mycroft looked closely and saw that the doctor had studied with a Mike Stamford, who was currently employed at Bart’s and was an acquaintance of his brother as well. This could be promising indeed.

  
*****************************************************************************************************************

  
     The next evening as Mike Stamford was leaving St. Bart’s a black sedan pulled up to the curb beside him. The driver rolled down his window.

  
     “Mike Stamford?”

     “Yes?”

     “Please get into the car.”

  
     “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  
     “The British government.”

  
     Later, riding through the streets of London, Mike Stamford looked nervously at the man in the back seat with him. He was a very haughty looking man, tall and thin. He was dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit and silk tie. His shoes were expensive and polished to a shine. His face was narrow and his nose seemed rather out of proportion to the rest of it. His dark hair was clipped very short and his hairline was receding a bit. There was a black umbrella with a bamboo handle resting against his leg, though there had not been any rain in London today, nor any forecast for the next two days.

The well-dressed man glanced over at Mike and finally spoke.

     “Mr. Stamford, I am sure you are probably wondering what this is all about. I assure you that I mean you no harm. In fact, I am here to make you a proposition. My name is Mycroft Holmes.”

     “Holmes?” Mike asked. “Are you related to Sherlock then?”

     “Yes, he is my younger brother,” Mycroft answered him. “Therein lies my reason for approaching you Mr. Stamford. My dear brother has been convalescing away from the city, but will be returning in ten days’ time.”

  
     “Convalescing? Has he been sick? I haven’t seen him around Bart’s in a while. I was wondering what he was up to. I had no idea.”

  
     “No, it is a matter that we have tried to keep hushed up. As I was saying, he will be returning to London and in search of lodging in the city. We have decided that it would probably be in his best interest to find a flat mate with which to split the cost of rent and expenses.” 

     “I really don’t have room at my flat…”     

  
     “I know. What I am proposing are your services in assisting my brother in finding a suitable flat mate. I have secured him rooms in central London, and I think I have also found someone that would be compatible, however, my brother would scoff at my interference on this point.”

  
     “So, you want me to introduce him to some stranger and pretend it was my idea.”

  
     “You are catching on! But it will not be a stranger to you, fortunately. Does the name John Watson ring a bell?”

  
     “John Watson? Yeah, he and I studied together at Bart’s. I haven’t seen him in years though. I think he joined the army.”

     “Indeed, he did. He was just recently medically discharged for a wound he sustained in Afghanistan.”

  
     “You’re kidding! Is he okay?”

  
     “I’m afraid I don’t kid, and yes, he is okay. A limp, I think, but otherwise quite all right, physically. Now, as I said, Sherlock will be returning on Monday, the 25th. I am going to arrange a case for him solve which will bring him to the lab on Friday--”

  
     “How can you be so sure it will bring him to the lab on Friday?” Mike interrupted him.

  
     “Because I know this case and I know my brother. As I was saying, he will be in the lab on Friday morning. You need to be there as well and bring up his living situation; he will tell you that he is looking for a flat mate.

  
     “At lunch-time you will be on a bench by the north side of Russell Square Park. John Watson cuts through there at approximately 1:00 each afternoon and that is where you will stop your old friend and engage him in conversation.

  
     “Dr. Watson, with some prodding, will tell you that he too is looking for lodging in London and in need of a flat mate. This will open the door for you to suggest my brother.”

  
     Mike chuckled, “All right, just supposing this all goes as you say it will—your brother comes to Bart’s where I get him to tell me that he needs a flat mate and then I happen to run into John Watson at the park where I get him to also tell me that he needs a flat mate. Then just suppose I do introduce them to one another. You do know your brother, don’t you? You know he tends to rub people the wrong way. What makes you suppose that John Watson is going to agree, just like that, to move in with him?”

  
     “Oh, I do know my brother, Mr. Stamford, and I know that when he needs to be, he can be very charming. And in this case, he needs to be very charming. I also have a feeling that Dr. Watson will be very intrigued by my little brother.”

  
     “So, why should I agree to do all of this? I really don’t understand why you need me. You seem to know quite a bit about John Watson. Why don’t you just go to him and tell him that your brother needs a flat mate?”

  
     “I’m afraid that wouldn’t go over well with my brother, for one thing. He quite adamant against my interference. You, however, are just a helpful colleague. Also, I don’t know Dr. Watson personally, as you do. He might think it odd of me.”

  
     “Trust me, mate, I am finding it rather odd myself.”

  
     “Yes, well, I think you will find it more appealing when I offer you £5000 to introduce Sherlock and Dr. Watson.”

  
     “Five thousand pounds?! Just to introduce these two? What’s the catch?”

  
     “No catch, Mr. Stamford. I just require your discretion on this matter, that is, you will not discuss anything that I have said to you this afternoon with anyone, including Sherlock and Dr. Watson. You will not mention my brother’s illness or that you and I have ever met. You will not tell a soul or else.”

  
     “Or else what?”

  
     “Or else some very disturbing information regarding your inappropriate relationships with several of your students will come to light in a very public and very distasteful manner.”

  
     “What relationships? I have never had a relationship of any kind with any of my students inappropriate or otherwise!”

  
     “Hmm, yes, but when you are the British government, as I am, you can make anything the truth.”

  
     “So, you’re threatening me?”

  
     “No, I am offering you a handsome payment for doing me a small favor on behalf of my brother, your colleague.”

  
     “Not really my colleague…”

  
     “Will you accept or not?”

  
     “Yes, I will accept,” Mike said with a bit of trepidation in his voice.

  
     “Excellent. I will be in touch with you soon, Mr. Stamford. Ah, I think we have arrived at your flat. Good evening, Mr. Stamford.”

 

  
*****************************************************************************************************************

  
     Sherlock stepped out of the taxi at 221B Baker Street and took a look around. It was in a good location, that was certain. He knocked on the door which was soon opened by Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson was a petite lady, a motherly-type woman. Several years prior she had found herself in a tough spot when her husband, who was running a drug cartel in Florida, was arrested, in connection with a double homicide. Sherlock was able to prove that her husband was indeed guilty and that Mrs. Hudson had nothing to do with her husband’s illegal activities. She was quite grateful and very eager to help Sherlock when his brother contacted her about renting the rooms upstairs.

  
     “Oh, Sherlock! I’m so glad to see you! How are you doing?” she asked, embracing him in a loving hug.

  
     “I’m well, Mrs. Hudson. I’m going stark raving mad because I’ve not worked for over six weeks, thanks to Mycroft, but other than that…”

  
     “I’m sure you’ll be busy again before long. Come along inside and I’ll show you to your rooms. Mycroft has already had all of your things sent over.” She led him up the stairs and into the sitting room of 221B. “The boxes weren’t labeled, so I just had them put them all in here. I hope you don’t mind.”

  
     “Not at all, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock glanced around the room and then walked into the well-appointed kitchen. “Very nice. Yes, this will do nicely.”

    
     “And you’ll be getting a flat mate?” Mrs. Hudson asked cautiously.

  
     Sherlock sighed. “Yes. As I’m sure my brother told you, it was one of the conditions of my ‘release.’ I am going to put an advert in the paper later this week.”

  
     “Of course, dear.”

  
     Sherlock began to open boxes and rifle through them, pulling out some beakers from one and a microscope from another. These he put in the kitchen on the table and then continued to open boxes.

  
     “Well, I’ll just be downstairs if you need me,” Mrs. Hudson said, as Sherlock continued to unpack items, ignoring her.

  
     “Oh, if you’re going down, would you mind making some tea?” he asked.

     “I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper, Sherlock,” she answered.

  
     “I take milk and sugar,” he said absently.

  
     Mrs. Hudson sighed, “Just this once.”

  
*****************************************************************************************************************

     Sherlock got a case right away, just as Mycroft had told Stamford he would, and just as Mycroft had told him, it brought Sherlock to the lab at St. Bart’s on Friday morning. That is where Stamford found him peering into a microscope.

     “Good morning, Sherlock!” Mike Stamford called to him as he entered. “I haven’t seen you in quite a while. Keeping busy, then?”

     “Good morning, Stamford. I’ve been out-of-town for a few weeks, but I’m back in London now.”

     “Yeah? Where are you staying these days? I imagine a busy bloke such as yourself likes to be where the action is?”

     “Yes, I suppose so. I’m actually in a flat on Baker Street. A bit expensive, so I’ll be looking for a flat mate. Of course, I imagine it will not be easy finding someone who would want to live with me.”

     “Oh, I’m sure there’s someone out there for Sherlock Holmes.”

*****************************************************************************************************************

     At one o’clock Mike Stamford put himself on a bench on the north end of Russell Square Park. Just as Mycroft had told him, John Watson came walking by, limping and leaning on a cane.

      **“John! John Watson!” he called out.**

**John Watson stopped and turned around as Mike hurried up to him.**

**“Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together,” he said, smiling.**

**“Yes, sorry, yes, Mike,” he said, shaking Mike’s hand. “Hello. Hi.”**

**Mike smiled, “Yeah, I know. I got fat!”**

**“No.”**

**“I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?”**

**“I got shot.”**

     They stood uncomfortably for a moment. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee. I’d like to catch up. It’s been a long time since we haunted the hallowed halls of Bart’s together.”

     “Um, I really need to be getting on…”

     “Come on now! It’s the least I can do after putting my foot in my mouth!”

     “Yeah, okay then.”

      **A while later they sat on a bench in the park sipping their coffees, an awkward silence between them.**

**“Are you still at Bart’s then?” John finally asked.**

**“Teaching now. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them!” They laughed. “What about you? Just staying in town ‘til you get yourself sorted?”**

**"I can’t afford London on an Army pension.”**

**“Ah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.”**

**“Yeah, I’m not the John Watson…” his voice trailed off he switched his coffee to his right hand and clenched his left hand, which had started trembling. Mike looked away awkwardly for a moment.**

**“Couldn’t Harry help?”**

**John snorted, “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen!”**

**Mike shrugged. “I dunno—get a flat share or something?”**

**“Come on—who’d want me for a flat mate?”**

**Mike chuckled.**

**“What?” John asked.**

**“Well, you are the second person to say that to me today.”**

**“Who was the first?”**

     “This bloke at Bart’s. He uses the lab over there for forensics research. He was just saying to me this morning that he was looking for a flat mate to share expenses on a place in central London. Said he imagined it would be hard to find someone.”

  
     “Really? Unpleasant then?” John asked curiously.

  
     “Different.” Mike replied. “He’s very studious, very particular, very observant. Quirky. I could introduce you, if you’d like. He’s going to be there for most of the afternoon, I should think. Molly Hooper down in pathology just got a corpse—donated for research—and she’s letting him do some experiments.”

  
     “Experiments?”

  
     “He wants to find out how long after death is bruising still possible, for one. Like I said, he does a lot of forensics research. Very studious.”

  
     “Yeah, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to at least meet him. No obligation to move in with him, right?”

  
     “Sure! Come on, we may catch him leaving the morgue.”

  
*****************************************************************************************************************

     Sherlock was looking through a file beside his microscope in the lab when Molly Hooper, the pathologist, came in.

     “Good news!” she said cheerily.

     Sherlock grunted in response.

     “I’ve got a corpse for you. Donated to us for educational use. You were asking for one yesterday, so I thought I’d give you first crack at him.”

     Sherlock looked up with interest now. “Really! Excellent! Come along then, quickly now!” he exclaimed.

     Molly followed Sherlock, who walked quickly and excitedly to the morgue. He struck such an attractive figure in his well-tailored suit. He was quite striking to look at— six feet tall, with dark, curly hair, piercing blue eyes, and high cheek bones that made his face seem chiseled from stone. Molly almost swooned every time she saw him, not that he would ever notice. She had known him for several years now, and he never noticed her. Today, though, she decided that she would make him notice her. She was going to work up the nerve to ask him out, just for coffee, but that would be a big accomplishment if he said yes. After all, Molly wasn’t even sure Sherlock dated or, for that matter, talked to girls.

     After she had left him in the morgue with the body of one of her former colleagues, Molly slipped down the hall to the staff lockers where she found a tube of lipstick in the bag in her locker and applied it carefully. She looked at herself in a small mirror on her locker door and smiled. She hoped he would notice.

     When she got to the observation room overlooking the morgue, Sherlock was pounding on the corpse furiously with a riding crop. He was always so absorbed in his work. She admired that. She entered the morgue just as Sherlock took his last few whacks at the body. His brow was glistening with sweat and he was breathless. He had taken off his jacket, and his fitted shirt showed off his well-toned body. Molly’s brain, of course, went blank as she searched for something to say to him.

      **“So, bad day, was it?” she asked him, instantly regretting that she had not thought of something more clever.**

**Sherlock jotted something down in a notebook, ignoring Molly’s chatter. “I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man’s alibi depends on it. Text me.”**

**Molly decided it was now or never. “Listen, I was wondering—maybe later when you’re finished--”**

**Sherlock glanced up at her and did a double-take. “Are you wearing lipstick? You weren’t wearing lipstick before.”**

**Molly couldn’t believe that he noticed. “I, er, I refreshed it a bit,” she said with a shy smile.**

**Sherlock looked at her for a moment longer before turning back to his notebook. “Sorry, you were saying?”**

**With renewed courage Molly answered, “I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee.”**

**Sherlock tucked his notebook away. “Black, two sugars, please. I’ll be upstairs.”**

**“Okay.”**

  
*****************************************************************************************************************

  
      **Back in the lab, Sherlock was working when Mike Stamford came in with a gentleman that Sherlock did not recognize. He barely gave them a glance, but that is all he needed. He listened as the stranger spoke.**

**“Well, a bit different from my day,” he said.**

**“You’ve no idea,” Mike said with a chuckle.**

**Sherlock sat on a stool. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”**

**“And what’s wrong with the landline?”**

**“I prefer to text.”**

**“Sorry, it’s in my coat,” Mike told him.**

**“Er, here, use mine,” the stranger said, offering his mobile to Sherlock.**

**“Oh, thank you.” Sherlock glanced at Mike as he walked over to the stranger.**

**“It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike said, as way of introduction.**

**Sherlock took the phone from John and began typing.**

**“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked John without looking up from the phone.**

**John looked startled as he glanced at Mike who just smiled knowingly back at him.**

**“Sorry?” he asked Sherlock.**

**“Which was it—Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked again, looking up briefly before he continued to type on the phone.**

**John looked at Mike again, who was still smiling.**

**“Afghanistan. I’m sorry, how did you know…?”**

**Just then, Molly walked in carrying a mug of coffee.**

**“Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.” He handed John his phone as Molly carried the coffee to him. “What happened to the lipstick?” he asked Molly.**

**“It wasn’t working for me,” she said, looking down awkwardly.**

**“Really? I thought it was a big improvement. You’re mouth’s too small now,” Sherlock said, turning away and taking a sip from the mug.**

**“Okay,” she said quietly and turned to walk out the door.**

**“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asked.**

**John looked around and realized that Sherlock was speaking to him. “I’m sorry, what?”**

**Sherlock, typing at a laptop, said, “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.’’ He looked up at John. “Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other.” He smiled awkwardly at John, who looked at Mike.**

**“Oh, you…you told him about me?”**

**“Not a word,” answered Mike.**

**Turning back to Sherlock, John asked, “Then who said anything about flat mates?”**

**Sherlock stood to put on his overcoat. “I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”**

**“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John asked him again.**

**Sherlock ignored his question as he put on his scarf and checked his mobile. “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” He crossed the lab, heading to the door. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”**

**“Is that it?” John asked him.**

**“Is that what?”**

**“We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?”**

**“Problem?”**

**John smiled in disbelief at this madman. He glanced to Mike who was still smiling, as if he was in on some kind of joke.**

**“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”**

**“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.”**

**John looked down at his cane and shifted uncomfortably.**

**Sherlock looked at him smugly. “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” He started to head out the door, but leaned his head back in. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street.” He clicked his tongue as he winked at John. Glancing at Mike he added, “Afternoon.” Mike gave him a small salute as he left the room.**

**Mike looked now to John and said, “Yeah, he’s always like that.”**

*****************************************************************************************************************

     Sherlock took a cab to his brother’s office at the Diogene’s Club. He found him sitting behind its massive desk reading over a file. Sherlock took the seat opposite his brother and crossed his legs.

     “Good afternoon, brother dear,” Sherlock said with a hint of sarcasm.

     “If you say so,” Mycroft responded. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, brother mine?”

     “I just wanted to let you know that I have found a flat mate, so you can stop threatening to find one for me. I’m meeting him tomorrow evening at Baker Street.”

     “A flat mate? That was quick. I didn’t even know you had put an advert in the paper yet.”

     “I didn’t, actually. I mentioned to one of the doctors at Bart’s that I was looking for a flat mate and he brought round an old colleague who was in search of rooms to rent.”

     “Well, who is he? What do you know about him? Is he a junkie, too?”

     “I am not a junkie, Mycroft,” Sherlock said softly.

     “Hmm, that is up for debate. The flat mate?”

     “He is a veteran, recently home from Afghanistan, wounded. Watson was his name.”

     “Is that it?” Mycroft asked him with a concerned face.

     “Isn’t that enough? I’m not marrying him.”

     “But you are moving in with him. Really, Sherlock, perhaps I should be vetting your potential flat mates!”

     “Oh, blow it out your arse, Mycroft! You said I had to find a flat mate as a condition of my release from rehab and to reinstate my allowance, and I have found one! You already have me living under the thumb of Mrs. Hudson. What more do you want?”

     “Very well,” Mycroft said, tugging absently at his waist coat. “Is that all then?”

     Sherlock stood up, realizing that he was being dismissed.

     Sherlock hailed a taxi outside and thought about what he was going to do for the rest of the day. He had finished the last case on which he had been working. He considered going back to Bart’s to take a look at the corpse he had been beating earlier and to do some analysis on some specimens he had recently collected for research. However, going back to Bart’s meant that he would more than likely have to interact with Molly Hooper, the pathologist. She was so silly and boring. In the several years that he had known her she had never managed to make conversation with him, never saying more than a handful of words within any of their encounters. He didn’t think he could endure such uncomfortable silence with her again today (silence was something he usually relished, but with Molly, it was always uncomfortable).

     He pondered Molly as he got into a cab and gave the address for Bart’s (the medical library would be a passable refuge for now). Just today he had tried to talk to her. He noticed that she had put lipstick on and commented on the fact. Then later he noticed that she had taken it off and told her that she looked better with it. After all, her lips were so small and the lipstick made them look fuller. She barely acknowledged him. In fact, when he told her that she looked better with the lipstick, all she said was “okay” and disappeared. Why did he even bother with some people? He started hoping that this Dr. Watson was more intellectually stimulating than most of the people he had to interact with on a daily basis. Perhaps even if he wasn’t he would at least have interesting stories to bring home about his work.

     His visit with Mycroft had frustrated Sherlock. His brother had threatened to not only leave him in rehab but also cut off his monthly allowance. While Sherlock could easily make ends meet charging clients for his detective services, he would not as easily keep up the creature comforts that his trust fund ensured, such as custom made suits; designer shirts, shoes, and coats; the newest laptops and iPhones; and, of course, a flat in central London. Mycroft was well aware of his expensive tastes, after all, they had grown up in the lap of luxury together. He was now holding Sherlock to this ridiculous task of finding a flat mate, yet was disapproving when he found one. Dr. John Watson seemed perfectly acceptable to Sherlock. He deduced that if Dr. Watson was an acquaintance of Mike Stamford, he must be of good, if not boring, character. Mike was one of the most boring people Sherlock had ever met. From all that Sherlock could tell, Mike didn’t even look at porn.

     But, Mycroft always found fault with everything Sherlock did. It had been this way since they were young. Mycroft considered himself superior in every way to his younger brother. He was fond of referring to Sherlock as “the slow one,” as if Sherlock’s intellectual prowess was that of an ordinary person.

     Mycroft had been especially perturbed with Sherlock since the latter left the MI6 five years earlier. The elder Holmes had plucked Sherlock right out of university, where the younger Holmes had finished as a master chemist, and dropped him into special ops training. Sherlock had been a quick study in combative skills, marksmanship, languages, code breaking, surveillance, breaking and entering, weaponry, and physical endurance and was soon one of Mycroft’s top agents. But, the life of a secret agent was one that quickly wore Sherlock down. While it was stimulating, he longed for something different. He longed to be back in London. Sherlock leaving the MI6 infuriated Mycroft. Sherlock becoming a consulting detective devastated him.

     Of course, Sherlock’s drug use had a big impact on the relationship between the brothers. Sherlock needed the drugs to stimulate his mind when his workload was slow. For many years Mycroft had come to Sherlock’s “rescue” when he thought that his little brother had lost himself in the drugs. Sherlock even had to make a list for Mycroft of the substances that he was using, should he accidentally overdose. Sherlock had tried to assure Mycroft that he was not an addict, to no avail. Three years earlier, Mycroft had successfully petitioned to become Sherlock’s Lasting Power of Attorney (not a difficult task for a man who was essentially the British government) stating that Sherlock’s “addiction” rendered him unable to take care of himself or handle his own finances. Sherlock was now at his brother’s mercy and had few personal freedoms. Because Sherlock had no friends (sentimental attachments were a character defect), detective work was the only escape from what he considered a mundane life.

     Sherlock checked his phone. He had been texting Detective Inspector Lestrade regarding a string of “serial suicides” that had been in the news. Scotland Yard, as usual, had everything wrong, but Lestrade would not let Sherlock look at the cases. He no doubt was being overly cautious about consulting with a civilian who had just done a stint in rehab for drug abuse relapse. The truth was, however, that Lestrade needed him, and when the public started to panic and doubt the police, he would give in and contact Sherlock. So far, that had not happened yet.

     Sherlock hung around Bart’s until early evening. He was careful to avoid the lab and the morgue, as well as the canteen—in other words, anywhere he might see Molly. Though he was eager to take notes on the corpse that he had been belting earlier, he was just too mentally spent to struggle through another awkward encounter with the pathologist.

  
     Back at the flat on Baker Street, Sherlock sat down in his large leather chair and pressed his fingertips together in thought. It had been a long, yet productive day. With no case to work, Sherlock went to his bedroom, where he dug through a box to find a blanket, and went to sleep.

******************************************************************************************************************

  
     John Watson sat up late in his bedsit. He was on the website of Sherlock Holmes, The Science of Deduction, where Sherlock described himself as “the world’s only consulting detective.” It seemed a bit odd, even a bit arrogant. To read his case files only seemed to confirm his suspicions. Sherlock claimed he could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. John almost laughed at the absurdity of his claims. But, then he thought that this was the man with whom he had agreed to look at a flat. This was a potential flat mate, someone with whom he would be living, and that made it not-so-funny.

     John had to admit though that he was pleased with the prospect of staying in London. He hoped that with its location in central London that the rent was not too steep. Even splitting the cost of some places in that area was out of the question for John. His pension did not afford him many luxuries. He had retired from the Army after being wounded in Afghanistan three months prior. He still had nightmares of the battlefield, but strangely enough, he didn’t feel haunted by the war; in some ways he missed the action and the adrenaline. Of course, here he was now, walking with a cane, seeing a therapist. You couldn’t really call him much of a soldier anymore. He wasn’t sure you could even call him a man.

     What would Mr. Holmes think of him? Holmes certainly seemed like a very astute man, even if John was skeptical that Holmes was all he asserted himself to be. John did wonder how he knew about Afghanistan, his therapist, and Harry. After all, John had barely said two words to him and Holmes had “deduced” that he had been invalided home from the war. _Afghanistan or Iraq?_

     John decided that even if Holmes was a bit “quirky,” as Mike had put it, it would probably be worth it to give the flat share a go. Holmes did say he could go days without talking and Mike wouldn’t have introduced them if he didn’t think they could get on all right. Besides, John didn’t have to be best mates with the guy in order to split the rent with him. And if he went back to work as a GP, he wouldn’t have to see him much. John would stay out of Holmes’ way and, hopefully, Holmes would stay out of his.


End file.
